


Shed A Light

by WrithingBeneathYou



Series: The Salt Mine [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, Porn with Feelings, miscommunication with a happy ending, nongraphic depiction of war, siblingcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 19:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19047277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrithingBeneathYou/pseuds/WrithingBeneathYou
Summary: In battle, in companionship, in love, Tobirama can only soldier on.





	Shed A Light

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt fill for the [2019 Naruto Rare Pair Bingo](https://naruto-rarepair-bingo.tumblr.com/) event taking place over on Tumblr. 
> 
> Board A, "Free Space."

Tobirama watches the linens drag beneath him, wrinkled by his fists and the tan fingers slotted between his own. He groans, soft and sweet, as his brother holds him together and takes him apart in turn.

In the past, the elders had tried to openly condemn this incestuous love between them, calling it abhorrent, taboo. For a time, Hashirama had even entertained the council’s very vocal opinions with a benevolent smile and words of understanding. But, never once did he stop slipping into Tobirama’s bed—gently carving out a place for himself in Tobirama’s soul on the eve of battle and crashing against him like the tide when they both returned from the conflict alive and hale.

“There are things more important than clan,” Hashirama had whispered that first night following the elders’ toothless condemnation. “They can all go to hell. I said I would build a village for you and that’s what I’m going to do.” Tobirama remembers the strength in his brother’s embrace and the way he held him through to the morning, long after the sweat of their love-making turned stale. Since then, he has never once doubted his brother’s devotion.

The room spins suddenly—interrupting his reverie—and Tobirama finds himself on his back, bouncing slightly with the motion. Hashirama crowds in close and kisses him, long and slow. He laughs when they part, more breath than volume.  “I must not be doing a very good job if you’re able to think this much.”

“Perhaps you would do well to think a little more,” Tobirama retorts, unerringly fond. 

Hashirama steals another kiss and settles between pale thighs. “So mean to your big brother,” he groans long-sufferingly. His erection, still slick with lubricant, slides along the cleft of Tobirama’s buttocks. It's a calculated tease and they both know it.

"Would it hurt so much to be just a little nice sometimes?"

In lieu of an answer, muscle jumps under Tobirama’s hands as he firmly cups his brother’s buttocks and hauls them back together with a grunt. By some miracle, the head of Hashirama’s cock catches at where he’s still loose and wanting and pushes into him all at once.

They cling to each other, calling out in unison and shuddering through the fire-bright sensation of being too full and clenched too tight respectively.

Watching Hashirama’s unguarded face contort in bliss will always be one of Tobirama’s guilty pleasures. He’s such a handsome man—broad shouldered and powerful in ways few can hope to match. That they can take the time to revel in these moments of adoration and exploration is a gift from the Sage.

Overwhelmed, Hashirama sinks down onto his elbows and shrouds them with his hair. Once he has the wherewithal to open his eyes again, he begins rolling his hips in a slow, controlled rhythm that never fails to make Tobirama’s toes curl and heart clench. They share sharp, desperate pants between them, trading air for the hot press of lips when the mounting pleasure proves to be too much.

Desperate to fall along with his brother, Tobirama wedges his hand between their sweat-slick stomachs and gives himself a couple of perfunctory strokes. Though, before the mounting wave of orgasm can crest, Hashirama drags his hand away and replaces it with his own. His palm all but engulfs Tobirama’s cock, callus-rough, too tight, and perfect.

As one, they moan and tremble through yet another small death.

Battle and the possibility of true death will come when the sun rises, but for now, Tobirama finds solace in the too-hot press of his elder brother’s body. Hashirama kisses his tattoos and murmurs sweet nothings into his skin, heedless of the sticky mess gluing them together. Promises and pronouncements of affection settle on his forehead.

Sex on the eve of battle is always like this—more akin to making love than fucking. It’s how they’ve always been.   

Tomorrow will bloom bright and bloody, but tonight is for them. 

***

The skirmish, when it comes, is a brutal, violent clash that leaves Tobirama shaken. He constantly looks to Hashirama—exuding power and wreathed in a halo of mokuton. His brother is a beacon to them all, and Tobirama’s onus as his second is a long standing one.

His role was set when the first branch of his burgeoning chakra network delved into the fluid within his mother’s womb and alighted on his brother’s curious probing. He knew before thought that he was the water meant to nourish Hashirama’s roots. By his hand, and his hand alone, Hashirama would grow to maturity and tower above the rest. There was never any doubt as to how much of himself he would give to see his brother thrive, because the answer would always be everything.

The drag and pull of muscle in his sword arm burns like a katon jutsu, but he never once falters in holding back Izuna’s advances. He has to keep the vicious little Uchiha heir engaged for the safety of his clan-mates and for Hashirama’s dream of peace.

For Hashirama.

Eventually, the skirmish concludes with no decisive victory on either side. Senju and Uchiha alike gather their wounded, leaving the dead to the scavenger birds by necessity, not choice. Withdrawal is a hurried, bitter thing.

As the sun fully crests the horizon—blood on the grass mirroring the red and orange hues of the sky—Tobirama finds himself alone amongst the bodies.

He limps through the battlefield, grimacing at the pain of a lucky kunai strike as it gushes with each step. The laceration on his thigh could be resolved quickly by Hashirama’s prowess, but his brother is too preoccupied with grasping Uchiha Madara’s pauldrons and all but bludgeoning the man with overtures of peace a league away.

In moments like these, it’s difficult for Tobirama to hold his tongue and stay true to his duty. Regardless, in battle, in companionship, in love, he can only soldier on. He will accept what he is given and ask no more.

He seeks treatment in one of the hastily erected medic tents and allows them to debride and suture his wound. The scar will be a reminder, of what, he isn’t certain.

Thoughts of the night before serve to distract him from the smell of antiseptic and the groans of pain around him. Unfamiliar hands on his bare thigh and the accompanying tug of the suture needle ground him enough that he isn’t carried away in the remembrance, but it’s a close thing.

Most of his fondest memories revolve around the love of his brother in some sense.

Finally, the medic-nin hands him back his blood-stained pants and sends him on his way with terse orders to avoid any strenuous activity for the next seventy-two hours.

The command falls on deaf ears.

Anija will have need of him within twelve.

***

Later that night, Tobirama finds alone for the first time in years. Lips turned downwards, he pulls on a threadbare yukata and gravitates down the hall to his brother's room. His hand hovers above the rice paper of the shoji screen, but only briefly before he slips in. The door slides closed with a sigh, chakric wards prickling as they slot into place.

“Good evening, Anija,” he greets quietly.

At his desk, Hashirama hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t turn away from the missive before him. Several crumpled, rejected drafts rest on the floor like so many scattered leaves.

It takes warm hands easing the kosode down over his broad shoulders for him to finally abandon his brush. Sighing, Hashirama covers one of Tobirama’s hands with his own and rubs the feeling of sandpaper from his eyes.

“I don’t know why he has to be so difficult about all of this,” he groans.

Tobirama knows precisely who has his brother so distracted without having to be told.

“Uchiha Madara will come to see reason. Or he will not. Either way, you will have your peace,” he pronounces. The knots in Hashirama’s shoulders—as familiar as his own—begin to shift and melt beneath his sure fingers.

Hair spills like a waterfall over the back of his chair as Hashirama tilts his head back and moans with relief.

“But it’s supposed to be _our_ peace. _Our_ village. I just don’t get why he can’t see that. He acts like he’s the only one with family to protect—like I’m going to take that from him or something.” He blinks up at Tobirama, too late to see an affected mask of indifference slot into place.

“Rest easy, brother. He will stand at your side in the end. I will serve in the Uchiha’s stead until he chooses to see sense,” Tobirama states, voice flat. He traces the steep slant of muscle between Hashirama’s neck and shoulders, follows it down across a strong clavicle and prominent chest.

“As long as it takes.”

Hashirama graces him with a burgeoning smile. “My sweet otouto. So good to me,” he says, eyes half-lidded. The hand he has resting over Tobirama’s—fingers tangled over the strong beat of his heart—slides up to ease his brother down by the collar instead. The first press of lips is as open and honest as every one that has come before.

It feels like coming home. 

“Anija,” Tobirama murmurs against the corner of his mouth. The title is a prayer and a promise between them. Another whispered entreaty and the innocence of tender touches quickly gains heat.

Hashirama releases his hold only just enough to rise from his chair with a graceful turn that tightens the linen of Tobirama’s yukata around his fist. He strokes the hair from his brother’s brow and dives in once more.

In this and in all things involving his most precious person, Tobirama is lost. There are hands on him, around him, holding him steady against a solid chest. It could be a minute, it could be an hour between that first hungry nip at his jawline and the sensation of traveling, of falling.

He lands on a pile of pillows and haphazardly thrown sheets—a common state for whichever futon they wind up sharing for the night. Sweet nothings caress the shell of his ear just as teeth drag down his earlobe to his neck, and further. One particularly sharp bite has him arching up against Hashirama’s mouth, keening at the bolt of desire that shoots from nipple to loins.

Growing increasingly more desperate to see Tobirama laid out bare and flushed with need, Hashirama pulls back and tears his threadbare yukata open, thankful for the lack of pants or undergarments.

Tobirama can feel the heat of his gaze, can feel the moment when it locks on.

“Tobi, what’s this?” Hashirama asks, brows pinched.

It’s obvious what he’s referring to—the angry purple bruising on the inside of a pale thigh and the swollen line of sutures at its center.

“A wound,” Tobirama states, slightly out of breath. “It’s nothing.”

There’s a sudden storm in Hashirama’s chakra that’s so unlike his typical feel of zephyrs through tall grass. Tobirama unhurriedly continues to unknot his obi, follows the trail of hair down Hashirama’s stomach, and takes his half-hard length in-hand. He coaxes the darkness from his brother’s aura all the while easing foreskin back to swipe his thumb across the softness revealed.

“It’s nothing,” he reiterates. “A minor inconvenience.”

“Why didn’t you,” Hashirama begins, only to break on a hitched breath.

“It doesn’t matter. You were otherwise occupied. Now stop stalling and fuck me, brother.”

His waspish retort has its desired effect. A surge of strength and Tobirama is promptly folded in half and pinned to the futon, biting back a hiss of pain. His cock throbs with the same angry rhythm as his wound. It spices the edges of his pleasure, makes them sharp where they should be smoothed by his brother’s solicitous regard.

Hashirama forgoes their typical foreplay, not even taking the time to remove his clothing more than absolutely necessary. Large hands grip the back of Tobirama’s knees as the floor slats sprout mokuton growths. 

Where his brother gathers oil from is a question for a time when Tobirama can do more than buck uselessly against the roots sliding up his buttocks and easing him open at Hashirama’s behest. It’s too much far too soon. The stretch burns like an Uchiha’s jutsu, steals the breath from his lungs. Even more suffocating is the intensity in his brother’s dark gaze, usually so kind, now narrowed with an emotion he can’t name.

Tobirama suddenly finds it hard to meet those eyes.

It’s not that he feels guilt for being the one to bring his brother pleasure. Their combined release, if anything, reaffirms Tobirama’s purpose—binds them in both flesh and heart, cultural prejudices be damned.

It’s just that intimacy is always harder, faster, more raw after Hashirama’s conflicts with Uchiha Madara. Sometimes Tobirama wonders if his love alone is enough to satisfy the raging conflagration that is his brother’s heart. He knows his questioning is wrong, can feel the shame of it in his bones. Still…

All too soon, Hashirama shoves forward with a grunt and uses his broad frame to keep Tobirama positioned. The mokuton retracts like slick fingers to be replaced by larger things. He struggles to get his hand between their bodies, but manages to line up the blunt head of his cock with Tobirama’s entrance after some maneuvering. There’s a hot, vicious pressure, reluctantly giving way with a pop more felt than heard.

Their shared cry is a visceral thing.

Shuddering through the first throes of being so intimately connected, Hashirama has to stop and collect himself.

It’s only a brief pause before he takes in a ragged breath and hilts himself fully in that tight heat. He grits his teeth as he pulls back to establish a rhythm that quickly pushes the border between passionate and punishing.

Tobirama wheezes and watches the ceiling rock, eyes glassy. His brother’s breath blows fast and desperate against his shoulder. Sweat builds between the heat of their bodies, making each frenetic slide slippery and smooth. The wet slapping of thighs on buttocks is a familiar sound between them post-battle, and tonight is no exception. Each grunt of effort is muffled in skin.

It’s a lurid thing.

Taboo.

Before he can even properly adjust to the overwhelming drag of Hashirama’s cock within him, his brother pulls out and bodily shoves him face-down on the futon. Tobirama flips over and moves under his hands instinctively. He arches his back and spreads his thighs wide, braces himself against the stretch of muscle near his groin as Hashirama’s weight settles back over him.

A particularly wicked thrust seats them together again, makes Tobirama’s elbows buckle and tears a sharp bark of surprise from him. Not even the bundle of sheets clenched between his teeth can stifle the sound completely. Hashirama slows just long enough to choke on an expletive, then scrabbles at Tobirama’s waist and all but slams them back together.

It’s such a brutal pace that Tobirama can’t tell whether they’re fucking or fighting. It’s a far cry from the tender love making of the night prior. Even so, he can’t stop. Won’t stop taking. He ignores the ache of his neglected erection and cherishes everything his brother gives him.

Powerful thumbs dig into the dimples by his spine as Hashirama rocks into him, hilting himself fully and driving hard to gain every possible millimeter of depth. Fingers claw bruises into his hips and—as much as he revels in the pleasure that sears through him and leaves him blurry-eyed and slack-jawed—Tobirama can’t help but wonder if it’s a different pale stretch of back his brother is seeing.

Maybe that’s what marks the difference in their lusts from one day to the next. It’s not the heat of battle that’s the catalyst, but the man Hashirama meets there.

The sudden realization settles around his neck like ninja-wire. Recent memories flash before him: Hashirama's warm smile directed away across the battlefield, the emotional entreaty between clan heads as Tobirama himself gushed blood limping half a league over torn earth, and the sight of his brother so preoccupied with writing a letter to the enemy that he could only reluctantly be coaxed into bed.  

Logically, Tobirama knows he’s being foolish. But still, one name slams through his chest and curdles in his stomach.

Madara.

He can see the irascible Uchiha as clearly as if he himself held the power of the Sharingan. He knows this man—knows how to give Hashirama what he is likely too proud to ask for outright.

After all, Tobirama alone could never be enough for a heart as large as Hashirama’s. His only recourse in this moment of realization is to give every last bit of himself, the pain of it be damned.

Some small, traitorous part of him wishes his brother had taken his mouth instead so he wouldn’t have the wherewithal to think—to draw conclusions. But, it’s too late for that.

From one instant to the next, Tobirama’s body swells and broadens into Madara’s familiar bulk. They are built along such radically different lines that it takes more chakra than it should to fill the space between. A thick curtain of hair falls down to blind him, narrowing his focus to his own white-knuckled fists.

It doesn’t matter. He knows the henge is perfect without needing to see more.

The reaction isn’t immediate. Hashirama’s pistoning hips slow, but don’t stop fully. He’s so close. Tobirama notes the strong twitch of his brother’s cock and the telltale slide of his hand to reach for Tobirama’s answering arousal. However, his waist is suddenly so much thicker, less familiar to navigate. Hashirama stops mouthing at the nape of his neck and leans back just enough to see where the hiccup is.

Tobirama clutches the sheets and lowers his voice an octave in imitation.

“Surely,” he pants, “you can dance better than this, Senju.”

“Wha?” Hashirama grunts in question, slowly clawing his way through the haze of arousal. Tobirama can tell the exact moment when his brother realizes whose pliant body he’s buried in. His hands spasm and start to push back, away.  

“Stop it,” Hashirama hisses. The flare of his chakra—deep and verdant in mounting anger—buffets the space around them.

Unprepared for the assault on his senses, Tobirama cries out and rocks forward to cover the collar-like seal around his neck. Even the cage of his fingers can’t block out the wave of power amplified by the Fūinjutsu he uses to extend his sensory range. It burns as it tears along his wide-open chakra pathways.

Hashirama wrenches backwards—pulling out with a wet pop that makes Tobirama hiss—and shoves his hip hard enough to send him sprawling onto his side. The warm seepage of honing oil and precome follows the crease of Tobirama's buttocks and slicks his thighs as he lies there, dazed and slightly startled.

For the life of him, he doesn’t understand Hashirama’s reaction. His henge is impeccable, as close to the real Uchiha Madara as any shinobi could get. Perhaps this is merely part of the game they play, he thinks.

Systematically deactivating his amplification seals, he rallies admirably from the pain. The bed sinks beneath his weight as he props himself up on his elbows and spreads his upraised knees in invitation, trying desperately to keep up the act.

“But I thought this was what you wanted, Hashirama. You’ve certainly never been shy with me before,” Tobirama croons, adding Madara’s teasing lilt to his brother’s name. “Performance anxiety, hmm? I’m amazed that ‘The God of Shinobi’ can even experience something so human.” The words settle on his lips like ash. He laughs mirthlessly, the sound loud and raucous in the small room.

Hashirama’s voice rises in answer, anger and another bleed of chakra lending power to the command.

“Stop it right now, Tobirama!”

He slaps away the hand that reaches for him and backs off of the futon with such a look of contempt that Tobirama is forced to reassess. He’s never had such a dangerous thing directed at him. Perhaps this isn’t an act. Certainly, there is no lie in the way Hashirama’s erection begins to flag, hanging heavily between his legs.

“There is no shame in this…” Tobirama begins, using his own voice this time.

Apoplectic, Hashirama scrubs his hands over his face and forcibly throws his hair over one broad shoulder. The dark waterfall sways and tumbles back to exactly where it was before.

“Hashirama,” Tobirama calls out. He abruptly drops the henge and shuffles off of the mattress with none of his typical grace. The sheets bunch and fall away beneath his scrabbling feet. A quick shunshin serves to intercept Hashirama’s long, fuming strides.

“Anija, please. It was not my intention to upset you—I had thought your preferences lay elsewhere,” he hurries to say. His brother’s biceps are warm and solid beneath his palms, their commingling breath smelling of genmaicha.

Hashirama’s fists clench as he bares his teeth. “Well, you thought wrong! Sage’s balls, how could you think I would—I could ever…” his voice suddenly breaks. The wild vines of chakra die down abruptly, and for a brief second, he seems smaller than Tobirama has ever seen him. Those massive hands—strong enough to snap a neck without effort—rise to cup Tobirama’s face firmly between them.

Hashirama curls down the scant few centimeters to rest their foreheads together. “Where would you even come up with something like that?” he asks, softer now.  

A beat of silence lingers between them, only broken by their heavy breaths. Tobirama closes his eyes and presses close enough to feel their bodies touch, chest to hips. He takes comfort in the solidity beneath his cheek.

“You’re much more passionate after your battles with the Uchiha. I had assumed—I had thought myself insufficient.” he begins with conviction, only to let his words falter. His admission is a bitter truth, but apparently an unfounded one. He opens his eyes and resolutely stares at his brother’s chin, calling himself seven kinds of fool.

“Oh, Tobi,” Hashirama sighs and pulls him into a hug. He plants a gentle kiss on the top of Tobirama’s head and nuzzles into his hair. “It’s not _that_. Do you have any idea how hard it is to watch you go up against Izuna? You’re both so intense. I’m afraid for my baby brother,” he follows the confession with another kiss, more tenderness than desire.

“If I’m more—” he says, pausing and burying a huff of laughter into Tobirama’s hair before resuming, “—more, ah, ‘passionate’ after a battle, it’s because I need to know you’re okay. That you’re here and safe. I can’t stand seeing you hurt.”

The warm timbre of his voice speaks of boundless sincerity.

“Ah,” Tobirama replies quietly. Embarrassment colors his cheeks, though, luckily, the flush can be excused as a lingering remnant of their coupling.

Hashirama holds him and slides one thick thigh between Tobirama’s legs, uncaring of the sweat and precome smearing between them. Grateful for the calculated distraction, Tobirama rocks against it and wraps his arms loosely around his brother’s waist.

“Sage, Tobi, you’re my baby brother. I love you more than anything.”

Tobirama’s breath hitches. He rolls his hips to ground himself in the drag and heat against his scrotum rather than the ache in his heart.  “And I you,” he finally gets out past the lump in his throat. “You know that.”

He feels Hashirama’s fingers against his jaw, then his chin is being lifted. The kiss, when it comes, is gentle and sweet, a feather-light touch of lips that alights as briefly as butterfly wings. “Let’s go back to bed. No funny business,” his brother says, voice dropping an octave.

Nodding in agreement, Tobirama reluctantly slides off of Hashirama’s thigh and squirms out of the embrace. Hashirama reaches for him with a pout. However, his affected discontent doesn’t last long in the face of Tobirama’s barely-there smile.

“Well, Anija?” he prompts, offering his hands.

With an answering grin, Hashirama threads their fingers together and follows Tobirama as he walks backwards to the futon. They sink into it, slow and controlled, and trade touches like they do on a battle’s eve. Eventually, Hashirama slides down his brother’s body and glances up at Tobirama from beneath hooded brows. He licks his lips in anticipation. “I love you, Tobi,” he repeats with such adoration that Tobirama has to look away.

“Get on with it, brother,” he murmurs, pointedly tugging on a lock of the long, chestnut hair pooled across his hips and stomach.

With a knowing smile, Hashirama leans forward and settles his elbows on either side of Tobirama’s thighs. The warmth of his forearms brackets slender hips and puts him in the perfect position to slide his palms beneath Tobirama’s buttocks and squeeze. A breathy little “ah” escapes his brother unbidden, turning into a richer moan once he begins to plant a nomadic series of kisses anywhere he can reach.

Tobirama’s cock twitches with interest. The scratch of stubble on his inner thighs is a familiar burn, one that has him conditioned to spread his legs wide and roll his head back.

For a stretch of time, Hashirama devotes himself to memorizing the taste of his brother’s skin, purposefully skirting the long line of his renewed erection. A brush of chin, a gentle graze of his cheek are all the stimulation he offers. By the way his shoulders shake, Tobirama knows that he’s being teased on purpose.

“Must I beg?” he snaps, though there are no teeth behind it.

“Never,” Hashirama replies, sobering in an instant. “Never, otouto.” He nuzzles Tobirama’s bobbing erection once more and uses his mouth to unabashedly worship the flared cockhead.

After all, in this and in love, Tobirama is not the only one to give everything of himself.


End file.
